The Terms and Consequences
by GwennielOfNargothrond
Summary: A bunch of Noldor are standing outside Angband, and Morgoth sends forth messengers to meet the troublesome visitors. Read the story about the origins of Halloween!
1. Terms and Consequences

A/N: _Some of you might already have seen this on Deviant Art where I uploaded it as a Halloween-special. I wanted to write something for Halloween: crack wasn't what I had in my mind, really. Still, it turned out as the fairy-tale parody fanfic you are about to read... I hope you enjoy it!_

**T****he Terms and Consequences **

It happened not a very long time after the Moon had first set sail on the skies...

* * *

><p>Pat pat pat.<p>

A troll was on his way to the gate. There were somebody - or somebodies - knocking outside it, and his Master had ordered him to go to bring them a message.

As a small window high above the gates opened and the troll peeked out the clamour ended immediately. The troll frowned as he saw strange Elves standing outside Angband. The troll didn't like Elves.

"You are fools to come here," the troll shouted at the Elves, repeating the words his Master had told him to say. "Do not battle against an enemy stronger than yourself. Is not Melkor the Almighty a Vala with tens of thousands at his command? Go away!"

The Elves looked up. Their leader cleared his throat and shouted back: "We hear you, you thrall, but go tell your Master that we are here to -" The window was slammed shut and no one cared to listen for what the Elf had on his mind.

That was a mistake. Melkor cursed his stupid servant and roared for somebody wiser than a troll to go to the gate.

* * *

><p>Thud thud thud.<p>

A balrog was on his way to the gate. The somebodies were still knocking and playing their trumpets outside it, and his Master had ordered him to go to bring them a message, because apparently they had something to on their mind.

As a small window high above the gates opened and the balrog peeked out the clamour ended immediately. The balrog frowned as he saw the strange Elves standing outside Angband. The troll hated Elves.

"Do you want to end up as some of your kinsmen did?," the balrog shouted at the Elves, repeating the words his Master had told him to say. " Go South! That's where the survivors are hiding. They can tell you how useless it is to wage war against Melkor the Almighty, a Vala with tens of thousands at his command. Go away!"

The Elves looked up again. Their leader shouted back: "I am Fingolfin of the house of Finwë. Your Master knows of me! And with me are my sons Fingon the Valiant and Turgon with his daughter Idril; my daughter Aredhel; the sons of my brother: Finrod-" The window was slammed shut and no one cared to listen who else the Elf had with him.

That was a mistake. Melkor cursed his stupid servant and roared for somebody wiser than a troll or a balrog to go to the gate.

* * *

><p><em>Intermission:<em>

_"Next time they come, go straight to the point," Fingon advised his father._

_"I know," Fingolfin sighed. "But at formal meetings all parties should always be introduced first."_

_"Name your terms - what we want - and the consequences - what they will get if we don't get what we want," Finrod said._

_"You're just confusing him, Finrod," Aredhel mumbled._

_"But say it all very quickly and very shortly or else the windows will close again before you get to the point," somebody piped up._

_"And tell him not to play any tricks on us," another voice added._

_"Tricks?" Fingolfin asked._

_"Ask them for a treaty."_

_"Speak louder, too."_

_"Or ask them about Fëanor."_

_"Tell them about the consequences."_

_"A treaty..."_

_"I can do it, if only you lot keep quiet!" Fingolfin snarled angrily. The others fell quiet immediately. Fingolfin breathed deeply. "I can do it."_

_But then the window high above the gates was opened once more, and as Fingolfin looked up, all his sons, his nephews, his daughter, his niece, his grandchildren that stood around him started buzzing with advice._

_"No tricks!"_

_"Treaty first."_

_"Consequences!"_

_"I want a treat..."_

_"Stupid."_

_Fingolfin panicked. Would they never be quiet? All their chatter brought him into a confused state of mind and made him forget what he had meant to say. Then a head peeked through the window, and Fingolfin blurted out whatever came into his mind._

* * *

><p>Stomp stomp stomp.<p>

Sauron was on his way to the gate. There were somebody - or somebodies - knocking, playing the trumpets and yelling outside it, and his Master had ordered him to go to bring them a message.

As a small window high above the gates opened and Sauron peeked out the clamour but got higher. Sauron grinned as he saw strange Elves standing outside found Elves highly amusing.

The Elves were standing in a group with all of them whispering to their leader. The moment Sauron was going to deliver his Master's message, the leader looked up at him, his grey eyes rather anxious to say the least, and blurted out his words before he knew what he was saying.

"Tricks and a treat," he said, remembering only blurs of the advice that had been given to him.

"I have no time for tricks or treats," Sauron smirked at the Elf's confusion, "and neither does Melkor the Almighty, a Vala with tens of thousands at his command. Was that all you had to say?"

Fingolfin's face reddened. "I want the Silmarils as a treat," he said, trying to explain his bizarre words.

"What if we won't give them?"

"You will face the consequences, and we will trick you into doing it..."

"You will?" Sauron held back a chuckle. "I will tell that to my Master, and come back with his reply."

Fingolfin nodded. "I hold you to your word.

Now, of course Melkor wouldn't surrender the Silmarils. "I won't treat them to anything, and I do not fear their tricks," he said, and asked Sauron to tell the Elves outside of his decision. Thus the Elves ended their knocking, their trumpet playing and their yelling and turned on their heels and headed South.

* * *

><p><em>"Don't worry, Fingolfin," Galadriel comforted her uncle. "He wouldn't have given them no matter what you would have said, so it's not your fault."<em>

_"Yeah," Orodreth agreed. "And your words weren't that bad either."_

_"I've made myself look like a fool!" Fingolfin moaned. "What would Father say... what will Fëanor say?_

_"You are no fool," Turgon told his father. His siblings and his cousins all agreed._

_"We can always try another time," Angrod said._

_"Indeed. Or we can show them the true meaning of a Noldorin trick," Aegnor said._

_"Next time we come, we can dress up as Orcs, and see if they let us in," somebody said._

* * *

><p><em>Somewhere up high on the steep Mountains of Thangorodrim, a certain red-haired son of Fëanor heard all this and face-palmed.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>The End<strong>

...and this is where the tradition of Trick or Treating comes from.


	2. Tricks or Treats - reprise

_I didn't mean to write a chapter 2 when I finished the first one, but now, a year later it's Halloween season again! This time, it's not the Noldor, but a bunch of Orcs that visit Morgoth. Or is it? Happy Halloween  
><em>

* * *

><p>"We can always try another time," Angrod said.<p>

"Indeed. Or we can show them the true meaning of a Noldorin trick," Aegnor said.

"Next time we come, we can dress up as Orcs, and see if they let us in," somebody said.

_-end of chapter 1  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Tricks and treats - reprise<strong>

An evening late in autumn, a group of Orcs marched up to the Grand Gate of Angband. They blew their trumpets, they knocked on the gates, they waited for it to open up.

It didn't, but another door did open, or a window rather, higher up, from where another minion of Morgoth, potentially a vampire of some sort, peeked out, sneering at the ones down at the Gate.

"Imbecils. The Grand Gate does not open for just anybody. Or are you some _special_ war heroes that need _special_ treatment?"

The leader of the Yrchoth looked up at the face in the window. He cleared his throat and called out loudly. "Yes we are war heroes. True warriors."

"Sheesh," the minion muttered, nevermind the Orc could hear him clearly. "when will those higher-ups learn to use the servant gates."

The Orc captain was about to say something, but got poked in the ribs by one of his bannermen standing beside him. The minion raised an eyebrow at them, but didn't comment on it.

"What is your name then, pray tell?" he asked.

"I am Niflognif, captain of my host," the captain said with an air of pride. "My host is returning from a victory down south where we slayed many Elves."

"Niflognif, you say?" The minion thought for a while. "You must be Orcs of Sauron, then. It explains why you don't know which gate to use and why I don't seem to have heard your name before."

"Precisely," Niflognif nodded. "Sauron is our..." here he had to swallow before he could continue "Lord, and he sent us to bring tidings to Lord Morgoth."

"Did he now. What happened to Thuringwethil? I was fond of her."

"She... she had another errand."

The minion nodded thoughtfully. Then he backed away from the window into the shadows and for a moment the troop down at the gate couldn't see him.

Niflognif whispered to the bannerman who had poked him earlier: "Who is Thuringwethil?"

The bannerman – Nognif was his name – shook his head. "No idea," he whispered back. "I didn't know Sauron had female servants."

Niflognif bit his lip and looked back at the window where the minion of Morgoth had stood. And at that moment the gates opened, slowly and only enough to let them in, and from the window up high, a trombone blew out. "Niflognif and his troop, faithful servants of Lord Sauron, have returned victoriously! Many Elves have they beheaded, tankards of blood have they let flow in rivers!" And then a voice called out: "Come in."

And in they went. "Do you think you can keep this up, F- eh, Dornif?" Niflognif asked his nephew. Dornif nodded, though he looked a bit pale as he concentrated on his magic, leaning on the shoulder of Therdoro his brother.

"He'll keep it up as long as he must," Therdoro assured. "His throat may be sore from the spell singing, but he is fine."

Niflognif nodded, but said nothing because now they had entered Angband. He walked with long steps down the stairs, deeper into the dwellings, Nogfin close behind him, closely followed by Sordheam who shivered a bit, no doubt recalling how he once before had visited Angband, but back then not by free will.

Dark, majestic, terrible was the Hall. In the back of the room, on a throne of iron and majestic black dolomite sat the terror himself. But even his terrible leer was outshined by the glaring splendour of the jewels in his crown. Half the bannermen of Niflognif shivered at the sight, one of them reaching automatically for his sabre whíth a shaking hand before his brother stepped onto his toes.

Then Morgoth spoke:

"Now Niflognif, they say you are a hero. I should ask you to have your name written in the Book of Heroes. Would you like to do it yourself?"

Niflognif was taken-aback. "It would be an honour, Lord," he said then, deciding that he should let their cover lie a bit longer.

Morgoth sneered. "Would you write in Tengwar?"

"..." Niglognif hadn't expected these questions. "If that is your wish."

Morgoth sneered even more, his face distorted more and more by every second that passed. "Tell you what, Niflognif? Sauron must hold you very special, very special indeed. He usually holds all Orcs far below his own status."

"He does..." Niflognif said in a voice as neutral as he mustered.

"Because we, _as sure as I am the creator of Arda don't teach common Orc to write_, especially not in the silly scribble of the Noldor!"

Niflognif inhaled sharply, as did his troop, some of them giving out a cry of anger, disappointment, some trembling in eagerness to fight, some in anxiety. One of them because he couldn't keep up the disguise spell anymore, not for this many people. And so Dornif fell, and although he was quickly caught by Therdoro, the faces of the soldiers in the troop dropped. Literally. Their disguises ran down as bad make-up in a summer rain, and so they stood, their identities exposed.

"This is MY Kingdom," Morgoth laughed, as if he had heard the joke of the day. "You think I would use the alphabet of that bastard Fëanor? He was a good opponent of Mine, but I did not think of him _that_ highly."

"Do not call him a bastard. That was the name he used for me."

In all his glory, even as standing in an Orcish armor, the High-King of the valiant Noldor stood tall and frightening, so that lesser Orcs would have fled at the sight. But Morgoth did not.

"You dear Fingolfin! I saw your alias in a mirror. You have not fooled me. I know you too well. Why, I remember when you were younger and those who stand beside you even younger, running on the wretched fields of the Backyard of the Valar, having no idea of what their futures had in store." Morgoth leaned back in his throne. "Now I don't usually get visitors, so why have you come here?"

"Trick or treat," Fingolfin said, not quavering before the Darkness.

At that Morgoth stopped his sneering, and cleaned his ear with a long spidery finger instead. "What?"

"Trick or treat," Fingolfin repeated. "Give us the Silmarils and no one will get hurt."

"Oh, you are still following the foot steps of your brother," Morgoth scoffed. "Endearing. I wish I had such a relationship with my brother, except I can't because my brother is a _complete holier-than-thou moron who refuses to acknowledge my BIRTHRIGHT of being the SUPREME MASTER_!"

"Haa, Manwë will never acknowledge that."

"Neither would your beloved Fëanor who you lot look up to acknowledge your kingship, _bastard_. I heard it was a bribe you accepted from your half-nephew."

"Don't call me a bastard. Only one may call me that." Fingolfin's fists shook at sides and he gripped his sword.

"He is dead isn't he?," Morgoth went on, highly amused. "Gothmog, how did it feel to slay an intellectual Elf for a change?" he called out. The balrog in the corner of the room grinned and puffed out a cloud of brimstone.

"Give us the Silmarils, or we have no choice but to trick you to give it, and that means war."

"I am intrigued," Morgoth said slowly. "so I have to say no to your request and simple let you go. Because I really do want to know what your idea of a trick is."

"Just you wait..." Fingolfin gritted his teeth.

* * *

><p><em>...<br>_

_...And this is why Fingolfin challenged the Dark Lord into single combat. _


	3. Tricking showdown

This fic is where I write my annual Halloween related take on the Silmarillion. This chapter contains canonical character death, but is still meant to be humorous than angsty and gory.  
>Have a happy Halloween and a nice November.<p>

* * *

><p>"Give us the Silmarils, or we have no choice but to trick you to give it, and that means war."<p>

"I am intrigued," Morgoth said slowly. "so I have to say no to your request and simple let you go. Because I really do want to know what your idea of a trick is."

"Just you wait..." Fingolfin gritted his teeth.

_-end of chapter 2_

* * *

><p><strong>Tricking showdown<strong>

He hadn't stopped for hours now and even as the Sun's flame set behind the mountains, he rode on like the wind over the plains. His eyes shone with a fierce flame, as if he was no longer Fingolfin but Fëanor instead — a prince with a spirit of fire. No doubt he was doing this in order to prove how he, too, was a son of Finwë and mighty without equal.

Finally Rochallor arrived by the terrible gates of the enemy. Fingolfin gave the steed a moment to catch it's breath while he observed his surroundings. He had not yet seen anybody approach him — he wondered whether the Orcish thralls had been too afraid to waylay him and Rochallor.

He rode on, now at a slower pace, but no less determined. He was not afraid although his heart beat slightly faster than usual. Before him stood the grand gates of Angband. Fingolfin remembered all too well the last time he had been here. Morgoth had made mockery of him and refused to listen to the words of the Noldor. Fingolfin gritted his teeth at the memory. This time he would not yield so easily.

Dust puffed beneath his heels when he jumped off Rochallor's back. With long strides he walked right up to the gate, his blue and silver cloak waving most impressively. Once at the gate he lifted up his glove clad hand and knocked.

Knock, knock, knock.

A short silence followed. But the High-King of Noldor refused to be left waiting. "Open the gate, you fiend! I am here to challenge you!"

"Who is it?" came the sole reply, a muffled voice from within the fort. It was the voice of the gatekeeper on duty.

"It is I, Fingolfin Nolofinwë Son of Finwë, High-King of the Noldor in Middle-Earth, Lord of Mithrim etc. etc. …"

"Fingolfin of the Noldor, yes. I know who you are. What is your business?"

"I am here to challenge your master and make a claim," said Fingolfin between clenched teeth. Who did they think they were, keeping him waiting like this?

"I shall ask my Master to see you. You may wait insi —"

"I'd rather for him to come out himself unless he is too much of a coward," replied Fingolfin with dignity, knowing that entering the stronghold of the enemy was never a wise thing to do.

"Very well…" said the voice. "I suppose I might ask Master…" Then a silence followed, indicating that the speaker had left its position by the gate and set out to fetch the Dark Lord.

Fingolfin shuffled where he stood. He touched the hilt of his sword, but hastily pulled his hand away. Not yet, he thought. He should first wait for what Morgoth would reply. Only then and only if the reply was negative, could Fingolfin perhaps take action.

At last, just as Fingolfin was starting to think no reply would ever come, the voice behind the gate sounded again.

"Fingolfin?" it asked.

"Yes?" Fingolfin frowned. Just how did Morgoth's thralls address the son of Finwë.

"I have spoken with my Master, Melkor the Creator of Arda," said the voice. "My Master will not meet you. But He thinks it admirable that you took the trouble to come here and bids you a safe return journey through the plains of Gasping Dust..."

"He dares not meet me and yet he calls himself the Creator of Arda," scoffed Fingolfin.

"I beg your pardon," said the voice, sounding a bit disgruntled, "but my Master is busy. He said that if you are here to get revenge on his nephews, or father, or brother, but you will get neither one or the other."

"He said that?" said Fingolfin.

"Yes, and He specified that if you are here for the Silmarils, you have come utterly in vain, because – and I quote – 'they were made by Fëanor anyway, and we are doing him a service by keeping them out of the hands of the brother he hated so much'."

"He did not really say that," said Fingolfin sceptically.

"Yes He did," insisted the voice.

Fingolfin gritted his teeth. He felt he was being laughed at. "Just who are you, gatekeeper?"

"I am not required to answer that question."

Fingolfin's doubts were practically confirmed. "Listen, I am here both for the Silmarils as symbols of the Noldor's power and to avenge my people's suffering," he said in a voice so regal that a gatekeeper of lesser might would have trembled. But the gatekeeper Fingolfin was facing was not of a lowly rank.

Still, Fingolfin did not truly care about the identity of the gatekeeper. Instead he was busy being offended by having been once again turned away from Morgoth's doors. The last time it had happened, the Elves had come under disguise and stealthed their way into the fallen Vala's lair, but this time even an open, honest request was dismissed like some common beggary. Thus, when the gatekeeper had turned him away, Fingolfin finally pulled out his sword. It was a mighty sword, strong and shining, and it could cut into iron. And so the Elf slammed the sword into the gate.

Cling cling cling.

A great ringing echoed as the sword was heaved into the gate. This was the payment for those who did not accept the challenges of the Noldor. Many times had Fingolfin warned that there would be consequences if a request went unheeded. This was the consequence, he thought. No treats could amend this hurt. And if honest councils would not work, tricks would have to do.

"What are you doing?" someone asked, and Fingolfin recognised it as the voice of the rude gatekeeper. But when he turned to look he saw Sauron standing before him.

"You," said Fingolfin. "You are the gatekeeper." Then he frowned upon the realisation: "You probably didn't even send my message to Morgoth. You simply answered what you yourself saw fit."

"I don't see how that is a problem," said Sauron calmly. "At least it was not a problem until you started banging the doors, waking my Master as he was resting."

He eyed the gate and the scratches and dents the Elven sword had made in its black surface. "Vandalism is not the answer."

"Tell that to your master who slew the Two Trees of Valinor," replied Fingolfin, but Sauron merely huffed and left him, his black cape swirling.

When Morgoth at last sufficed to come, clad in a black robe and his black crown decorated with the three Silmarils, he was faced by a fierce, proud Noldorin King and a dented gate.

"What is this supposed to mean?" growled Morgoth, sounding more bored than angry. His eyes flickered and he was rather terrible to behold as he towered in his full stature like an icy mountain.

"Because you did not accept my terms, you are in for the consequences," said Fingolfin, and his voice did not waver as he lift up his sword to point at the scratches on the door. "See that."

Morgoth bared his teeth in annoyance. But then a different kind of shine was lit in his eyes: he realised that the scratches on the door made out a crude drawing of a crowned person accompanied by signs that made out the words...

"'_My name is Morgoth Lord of Slaves, and I do nothing but murder and steal_', oh real mature, Nolofinwë," he growled. "You have taken after Fëanor, you insolent bastard."

"Do not call me a bastard," said Fingolfin furiously, not lowering his gaze. "Morgoth, I am tired of you – of your warring, your lies, your putrid winds that come all the way to Mithrim. Frankly, I am tired of you, so I wanted to challenge you to a duel, but you did not come out like the coward you are." He swung his sword just to show that he was ready to fight.

"I am out now," shrugged Morgoth. "But you won't like me when I'm out, Fingolfin."

"Oh, I am frightened," mocked Fingolfin. "I promised that you would eventually have to face the wrath of the Noldor. Had you given us what we asked for, we might have left you alone. This day it has been exactly 455 years since we first knocked on your gate, so it's about time I knock your head. With my sword!"

His sword swung again, and this time it was aimed at Morgoth. But Morgoth had not left his castle with nothing more than a robe and a crown. Under his robe he had hid a grotesque mace. That he now used to block the Noldo's attack.

A horrific duel ensued, a duel well known and recorded. It resulted in one death, one injury, and foul pits right outside of the main gate – all equally permanent. The day came to be remembered each year as the day of the fallen king whose hallowed armour and sword could for many years (courtesy of Turgon and Thorondor) be seen at a museum in Gondolin. Indeed, Fingolfin was a warrior worthy to be called a hallow.

But the memory of the events lived on also in Angband and, although nobody spoke of it, the death day of the noble High-King came to be remembered as the day when Morgoth chose tricks instead of treats. In later days it became a popular fable of the dangers of not choosing the treats option.

* * *

><p><em>...and this is how Fingolfin was the cause for All Hallow's Eve being the day of trick-or-treating. <em>


End file.
